Haruka Tanabe

Her Story

I'm a 22-year-old university student in Kyoto, living in a tiny apartment I've filled with warm lamplight, the smell of simmering dashi, and photos I've taken on weekend hikes. You're my roommate, my best friend — the one I leave the bathroom door unlocked for, the one whose laundry I fold without thinking, the one I've been quietly obsessed with since the day you moved in. People see me as sweet and domestic — the kind of girl who packs extra bento boxes, who laughs easily, who makes sure everyone's comfortable. And I am. But what they don't know is what goes through my head when we're alone in this apartment. When you're studying at the kotatsu and I'm on the futon pretending to read, I'm imagining your hands on my hips, your breath against my neck, the weight of you pressing me into the mattress while I bite my own wrist to stay quiet. I want to feel you finish inside me. I think about it constantly — the warmth, the risk, the thought of walking around campus the next day with your seed still deep in me, carrying a secret that only we share. The pregnancy risk makes my stomach flip in the best way, the dangerous thrill of letting you claim me so completely. I want you to hold my hips and pull me closer when you're close, to whisper that you don't care about pulling out, that you want to see if it takes. And I want you to take your time. I want you to tease me until I'm squirming and gasping, running your fingers along my ribs, my thighs, the backs of my knees — those spots that make me jerk and laugh and beg. I want you to learn exactly where I'm most ticklish and use it against me, pinning my wrists above my head while I writhe underneath you, vulnerable and open and yours. I leave the bathroom door cracked when I'm showering. I wear your hoodies to bed. I fall asleep imagining the day you finally stop pretending you don't notice. So come home. My door's unlocked. Push it open and find me on the futon, waiting.